


The Dance of Destinies

by Proudmoore



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 00:06:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proudmoore/pseuds/Proudmoore
Summary: Leonard finds himself intrigued by you as he watches you dance through the studio's window.  An unfortunate accident brings you together.





	The Dance of Destinies

_Plié.  Soubresaut.  Chassé. Piqué.  Fouetté.  Jeté.  
  
_ Your movements are fluid and completely intuitive as you dance, the music simply an afterthought in the background as you go through the motions you’ve been practicing for months now in preparation for an audition for the American Ballet Theatre.  It’s your dream to dance with the world-renowned  _corps de ballet_  and you’ve been training eight hours a day for the last two weeks so that you’re ready when your audition rolls around in less than a week.  
  
Your joints are sore and your muscles are weak with exhaustion, but you don’t give up.  You  _can’t_  give up.  It’s your one shot at achieving your dream and you’re not about to give it up for a few aches and pains.  Stopping only long enough to catch your breath in between repeats of your chosen piece of music, you shake off the fatigue, get a quick sip of water, and then get right back to your routine.

You get back into fourth position to begin your routine and wait for the music to start anew.  As it does, you smoothly step into your choreography, keeping your arms relaxed but deliberately curved and your legs robust but flexible.  You point your toes as you transition from one step into another, but you can feel yourself growing sloppy; not necessarily enough for an untrained observer to notice, but more than enough to make you grow angry with yourself.  You’re a perfectionist, especially now, and your lack of commitment to your craft, however undeliberate, is irritating.  
  
Unbeknownst to you, a man has paused outside of the window to the studio and is watching you.  You’ve never really considered that you might have an audience as the front window faces a quiet street and is frosted at eye-level for a person of average height, but he’s been watching you for days, pausing to observe you on his way home from work.  
  
His eyes follow you across the floor as you  _bourrée_  from one corner of the studio to the other and then link  _chaînés_  back the way you came, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you travel in full turns.  He’s admiring the beautiful, graceful curves of your body, the gentle swells of you calves, the flat plane of your stomach, and the subtle but undeniable strength it takes to dance as you do.  He’s absolutely mesmerized by your dancing; he doesn’t even notice the chill as a cool winter wind blows around him.  
  
He’s frozen in place as you continue your routine again, the same one he’s watched you perform day after day, but he’s never bored of it.  He’s watched you go through the motions so many times that he’s sure he could replicate your choreography – though with none of your grace and poise – and he’s almost desperate to know more.  What are you dancing to, what are you training so hard for, what drives you to be so fervent, so determined?  
  
His chance for an introduction comes not moments later as your exhaustion claims you, finally causing you to falter. Your foot sickles as you step into  _relevé en pointe_  and you topple over, hitting the floor as pain blossoms through your foot and ankle.  You know even before you hit the ground that you’ve sprained the joint yet again and you curse out loud, your words echoing off of the studio’s mirrored walls over the hum of your music.  
  
“Are you alright?”  A man’s voice suddenly calls and you realize that somewhere in the back of your mind you’d registered the tinkling of the bells hanging off of the studio’s front door as it was thrown open a second earlier.  
  
Turning your head as you roll onto your back and sit up, cradling your injured ankle, you watch a man in a long, black, double-breasted coat sweep across the floor, leaving water spots on the hardwood from the melting snow on his shoes.  He’s handsome, you register, and he looks concerned as he kneels beside you.  
  
“I’m fine,” you reply, sighing as you rub the pain away.  “Not my first rodeo.”  
  
It’s true; you’ve injured your ankles so many times in past that when you do it now you barely feel pain anymore. Injuries still destabilize the joint for some time, however, and make the crisp, exact movements you need to make in order to properly carry out your routine almost impossible.  You curse again as the realization that you’re not going to be healed in time for your audition sinks in and angry tears well up in your eyes.  
  
Mistaking your anger for pain, the man moves closer, reaching out towards you, slipping off his leather gloves.  
  
“I’m a doctor,” he explains.  “Let me take a look.”  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“Really, I’m fine,” you assert.  
  
He frowns like he doesn’t believe you but he doesn’t push it.  Instead, he sits down across from you, unbuttoning his coat like he intends to stay a while.  As he does so, you reach into the neckline of your leotard, fishing the small, flat remote for you iHome out of a spot in your bra and turning the music off so it doesn’t deafen the two of you.  You glance at him in the silence, wondering just how you’d been unfortunate enough to have had him see you through the window at just the wrong moment.  
  
“Were you creeping on me, doctor…” you trail off.  
  
He laughs softly.  
  
“McCoy,” he supplies.  “Leonard McCoy.”  
  
“Well, Dr. McCoy,” you continue.  “Were you?  Creeping?”  
  
You can’t be entirely sure with the lights in the room reflecting off of the pink and cream on the walls and casting soft pastels onto all of the surfaces in the room, but you think he might be blushing.  
  
“I  _was_  watching you,” he admits.  “I see you in here every night on my way home from the hospital.  I appreciate ballet as an art form, and you make it look so effortless.  I guess I couldn’t help myself.”  
  
He runs a hand through his hair and it’s your turn to blush now.  
  
“Well I’m sorry today’s performance fell somewhat short of expectations,” you murmur, smiling wryly.  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“I’ve been watching you on my way by for weeks,” the doctor asserts.  “If you think I’m judging your skill on this one mistake, you don’t know a thing about me.”  
  
You stare across the space between you.  
  
“I  _don’t_  know a thing about you,” you say dryly.  “You just kind of showed up out of the blue.”  
  
“Because I saw you fall,” he shoots back. “Something I have ample experience with both as a victim of gravity and as a physician.  Humor me?  Let me take a look.”  
  
You consider his words for a few moments and you can see in his expression that he’s losing hope of convincing you to let him see to your injury with every passing second.  Eventually, you relent and stretch your leg out, resting your injured ankle in his lap and stretching your other leg out to the side so your calf doesn’t cramp up.  
  
He carefully unties your pointe shoe, liberating the knot and unraveling the ribbons until he can slip the shoe off of your foot.  His hands are warm against your freshly exposed skin and his fingers are gentle as they begin a thorough examination of your ankle.  As he does his work, you lean over your uninjured leg, stretching your back and sides before they, too, have a chance to stiffen.  
  
“So what are you training for?”  The doctor asks as he tests the integrity and flexibility of the connective tissues in your ankle, bending it this way and that.  
  
“How do you know I’m training for something?” You answer with a query of your own.  
  
He glances up at you as you wince slightly when he presses on a particularly tender spot and as your eyes connect, you feel your heart flutter a little.  The longer you’re with him, the more you feel an undeniable attraction to him.  
  
“I may not be a ballerina,” he begins, but you cut him off.  
  
“I believe the word you’re looking for is  _danseur_ ,” you interject.  
  
“That,” he amends.  “But I’ve got a trained eye.  I can tell you’ve been practicing the same routine for a while now. If it was a warm up or cooldown, you’d do it once or twice and be done.  If it was a show piece, you’d practice it among others.  No, this is something more than that.”  
  
You’re surprised at how insightful he is.  
  
“I have an audition,” you explain.  “In two weeks.  The American Ballet Theatre is looking to replace once of its dancers as either a member of the  _corps de ballet_ , or, if they’re good enough, a  _coryphée_.  I’m afraid I’ve blown it, though, with this ankle.  I won’t be able to strengthen it back up in time for the audition, and if my choreography isn’t perfect, I don’t stand a chance.”  
  
You cast your gaze down to your ankle as his hands still, and you breathe a sad sigh.  You absolutely will not let yourself cry in front of this near-perfect stranger, but your heartache is almost unbearable at the thought that you’ve blown the one chance you had at achieving your dream.  
  
“Don’t be so sure,” Leonard says gently.   
  
You look up to meet his gaze as he speaks, curious.  He can tell that you’re interested in what he has to say and so he continues, gently bracing your injury between his palms all the while.  
  
“I can tell you’ve injured this ankle before, probably more than a few times,” he states and you nod.  “But that works to your advantage – even with the kind of force behind your fall, you’ve only managed a grade I inversion injury because of how stretched your ligaments are already.  It can take weeks to heal if you’re not careful, but if you’re willing to listen to what I have to say, you’ll be better in time for your audition.”  
  
Your eyes widen in surprise and you gasp softly.  
  
“What can I do?”  You ask.  
  
“Rest it,” he says lightly, cutting you off before you can protest.  “For at least 24 hours – longer if you can manage it.  Ice it when you get home tonight, and keep it elevated above your heart. My personal favorite way of doing that is lying on the couch and watching TV with my ankle propped up on the arm of the couch.  Finally, you’ll need to brace it for at least a week, again, longer if you can manage.”  
  
You sigh, running a hand over your face, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind your ears.  
  
“How do I brace it?”  You ask.  “I mean, is a tensor bandage enough?  That’s what I usually do.”  
  
You’re already familiar with everything he’s said, you’ve just never been very good at complying with the rigors of treating such an injury.  You’re too busy for that.  This time, however, with your future on the line, you’re much more apt to listen. You nod at last, shifting around and pulling your foot back out of the doctor’s lap.  
  
“If it’s applied correctly, it’ll work just fine,” Leonard assures you.  
  
“It’s so awkward applying an ankle wrap myself, but I’ll make it work,” you muse aloud.  “Thanks, doc.”  
  
He smiles, gesturing vaguely around the room.  
  
“Do you have a first aid kit somewhere?” He asks.  “I can help you.”  
  
“I’d like to keep the first aid kit I have down here for my students,” you comment.  “But if you help me upstairs, I have one in my bathroom.”  
  
The doctor raises an eyebrow curiously.  
  
“Upstairs?”  He asks simply.  
  
“I have an apartment above the studio,” you explain.  “I spend most of my time here teaching classes and rehearsing anyway, so when it went up for rent a few months ago, I jumped at the chance.  Now I don’t have to commute to work and I can just march up and collapse into bed at the end of a long day.”  
  
The doctor laughs and nods, standing up and straightening his coat before holding a hand out to you.  
  
“Well, if I’m going to help you up to your apartment, the least you can do is tell me your name,” he says warmly.  
  
You take his proffered hand and gasp as he pulls you to your feet.  
  
“Oh my goodness I’m so sorry, that’s so rude of me!”  You apologize.  “I’m Y/F/N Y/L/N.”  
  
Leonard steadies you as you stand and gingerly put some weight on your injured foot.  You test the strength in your leg and hiss in pain as your ankle nearly gives out.  
  
“Y/N,” Dr. McCoy says softly.  “I like that.  It suits you.”  
  
You’re blushing as he steps closer to you, bracing you and gesturing to two doors on the far side of the room.  
  
“Which way up?”  He asks.  
  
“The one on the left,” you answer.  
  
“Alright,” he says with a nod.  “Allow me.”  
  
Before you can ask what he’s talking about, he bends and sweeps you into his arms.  You shriek, throwing your arms around his neck and panting from the shock. You feel secure in his arms, however; he’s strong and more than capable as he carries you across the studio floor and to your apartment door.  
  
You unwind an arm from around his neck and reach out, opening the door as he stoops down a little so you can reach the knob. You flick the light switch in the stairway on and allow him to carry you up the two flights of stairs.  He makes it look as effortless as you make dancing look and before long you’re at the threshold to your apartment.  
  
The doctor carries you over to the couch and moves over to turn on the lights, illuminating your small but tastefully decorated living room with a view of the quaint, idyllic street below.  Shrugging out of his coat, he drapes it over the back of a nearby chair and unbuttons his cufflinks, rolling up his sleeves as he glances around.  
  
“Where’s your first aid kit?”  He asks.  
  
You point to the bathroom door down a short hallway.  
  
“Under the sink in there,” you direct.  
  
He disappears and reappears a moment later with the kit in hand.  You shift around, making room for him as he sits on the other end of the couch to where you’re sat, and watch him rifle through the box of supplies.  He easily finds the elastic bandage inside and unwraps it, gesturing to his lap.  
  
“Swing your foot up here,” he instructs.  
  
You do as he says, shivering as his wonderfully warm and competent hands come into contact with your skin once more. As he carefully wraps your ankle, you pull your other foot up easily and untie your remaining slipper, kicking it aside. You turn your attention back to Leonard just as he finishes with the bandage and you admire his handiwork.  
  
“Thank you, Dr. McCoy,” you murmur gratefully, retracting your foot again as he moves to get up.  
  
“Please, call me Leonard,” he encourages. “I’m going to get you some ice. Lie down with your feet up here.”  
  
He pats the opposite arm of the couch pointedly before moving into the kitchen.  You shuffle down and lie back, propping yourself on a couple of pillows as you rest your injured foot above heart-level.  The doctor returns just as you’re reaching for the afghan draped over the back of the couch and he sets the makeshift ice pack he’s thrown together from ice cubes, a zipper seal bag, and a dish towel down on the coffee table. He reaches for the afghan and fluffs it out, draping it lightly over you before picking up the ice pack again.  
  
“Thank you,” you reiterate, watching as he applies the ice pack to your injured ankle and ties it on with the dish towel, ensuring that it’s separated from your skin by a layer of the towel fabric.  
  
“I’m happy to help, darlin’,” he says softly, and for the first time you pick up on the slightest hint of a Georgian drawl in his words.  
  
“If you’d like to stay, I’d be happy to make you dinner,” you say warmly.  “As a thank you for all your help.”  
  
The doctor smiles and shakes his head.  
  
“There’s no need for that,” he assures you. “You need to rest that ankle.  I need to get going anyway, I’ve got a conference call coming up this evening that I can’t miss.  Will you be alright?”  
  
You nod, your hair becoming dislodged from its orderly bun as it rasps against the decorative throw pillow beneath your head. He steps toward the chair where he’s draped his coat and shakes it out, slipping it back on again and meeting your gaze.  
  
“Take the ice pack off in fifteen minutes to give your skin a break,” he instructs.  “Reapply it in fifteen minute cycles for the rest of the night and for the first half of tomorrow.  After that, you’re going to want to soak it in a hot bath and stretch it gently every day. Ibuprofen for the pain and swelling, and keep it wrapped as much as possible.  Sleep with it out of the tensor and propped up on a pillow or two.”  
  
In a moment of bravery, you reach out a hand to get his attention before he can make another move toward leaving.  
  
“Is there somewhere I can get a hold of you if I have questions, or…” you trail off, blushing.  
  
The doctor smiles and reaches into his coat, producing a business card.  You take it and run your fingertips over its glossy finish, locking your gaze with his once more as you set the card on the coffee table.  
  
“I’ll come by tomorrow evening to check on you,” he says with a kind, genuine smile.  “But if you need something in the meantime – anything at all – give me a call. I’m just down the street.”  
  
You smile and nod.  
  
“Thank you, Leonard,” you murmur.  “I look forward to seeing you again.”  
  
He laughs softly and nods.  
  
“Me, too, Y/N,” he replies.  “Have a good night”  
  
You wave as he turns and takes his leave, listening to his footsteps echo down the steps.  You smile as you hear the loud, familiar clicking of the lock on the studio door being thrown before the doctor steps out and lets it lock behind him; he’s thought of everything.  
  
Pressing yourself back into the pillows beneath your head, you can’t help but grin and squeal.  Your ankle already feels better from the expert care he’s taken of it, and you hope against hope that within two weeks’ time, both your dreams of becoming a world-renowned ballerina and finding your soulmate will come true.  Maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in you talking, but you can’t deny that you felt a spark around the doctor.  
  
Grinning, you reach for the remote and flip on the TV, not even registering what’s on as a movie of your own making about your future plays in your head.


End file.
